Monthly Archives: March 2017

It smelled of mold and mildew down there. The air always had a cold damp quality to it. Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there. All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food. Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon. I always thought it strange. Then there was the safe. The massive safe hidden behind the stairs. Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe. It was always one of those unspoken rules. The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents. The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation. They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes. I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch over. Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open. It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then. The sheer and absolute terror. The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!”

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement. My mind began to race: Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water. That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.” He pulled me in close and hugged me. I felt relief, repulsion, anger…. The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me. I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there. It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed. He intrigued me. I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick. But by then it was nearly too late for that. For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.

It’s still the same I suppose. Every spring as Easter approaches. I drive past the various Churches, with their steeples acting like beacons, sending their Celestial signal up towards the heavens. I pass there aching to go inside.

The ache rises in my chest as I pass, and then my heart sinks as I sit glued in my seat. My blood runs cold as I nervously think that ‘maybe I am unforgivable’. How dirty I feel. Less than. Not quite good enough to stand next to any of the people donning their Sunday best.

I ache for closeness with Him like I once had. The only One who ever deserved my whole heart, who ever deserved my obedience and love. He was the only One who would never betray me.

I can’t remember when I had stopped talking to Him. Some call it praying. But it was more than that to me. It wasn’t rattling off a bunch of rote prayers, though that was how I had begun. We were close back then. It was like a friend that was sitting at the foot of my bed, just as real as you are reading this now. I’d talk about everything. Then listen. Oh yes, He would answer. He spoke through my intuition, I believe. Sometimes I would ask for a sign. Sometimes He would give me one: a gentle cool breeze on a hot night or a small butterfly dancing at my window just as I would ask.

I had stopped going to church. No one particular reason really and not in anger either. Then a few years later I had stopped praying. Other things had seemed to take precedence. It was like one day He was just gone. You see, it wasn’t an event, rather it was more of a process. Like most good things in life that slip away.

When I tried praying again? it felt empty and perfunctory like I was running through mathematical computations. Something was severed. And I knew it hadn’t been severed by Him. That pain of knowing what I lost has been unbearable. The emptiness, nothing thus far can fill.

A thousand miles I have strayed off that chosen path on which I should have tread, maybe more. It is easy to get lost out there in the darkness. Still easier to stay lost.

I don’t know how I will get back to Him. I’m so far off course and a compass rose made only of hope in my grip. I hope that He finds it in His heart, to forgive me. Hope that this prodigal daughter can come home. Hope that lost Faith will be found.

It sounded like it was raining all of the time in most of Massachusetts. Strange, because it wasn’t. It was them, I was told. I didn’t really understand you see, I was only eleven at the time and there is only so much you really grasp at the age. For that matter, want to grasp about what grown-ups tell you.

But I saw them everywhere. Climbing, crawling, moving. They seemed very busy.

My dad was putting this sticky tape around the base of most of our trees in an attempt to keep more of them from invading. But it was too late I think. They were already high up, munching away.

My school friend Kay, my sister, and I used to ride bikes a lot of the day during that fateful summer when they came.

Kids seem to naturally adopt the views of their parents and the larger world around them. Kay was no exception. She decided that she would help get rid of them one-at-a time, through beheadings. Unspokenly, she had decided for us all. Our method was to take the wheel of our bicycle and ride over their body and watching the various color in the “squish.”

I couldn’t do it. I averted my wheels last second, they seemed so tiny and defenseless, it seemed too cruel. My sister and Kay never noticed, they were too engrossed in their own fun.

Later that day my dad came home from work. He pulled into the driveway in his light blue Ford pick-up truck. He approached me and squatted down to ask, “what are you doing with those boxes and the Vaseline and Q-tips honey?”

I explained, “I’m trying to put them back together, I am trying to fix them, dad. See, I put a little jelly on ’em. Then I put them in my jewelry boxes. Then I come back to check the next day. If they are not moving, I bury them and give them a little funeral.”

Like this:

I don’t care what you have ever seen or read about Fifty Shades of Grey, it’s all bullshit. At the outset, all I want is to please and want to do what he says and all that; I guess it IS like that. And I suppose in the beginning maybe I would’ve eaten a piece of dog-shit or something for him.

But this was 3 years in. And the lashings with his cane and whip or hand or paddle had grown kind of old . And the formality of saying “yes, Daddy” had worn me thin.

One particular night, he had bragged he wanted to make me bark like a dog.

One of his fucked-up whims I guess.

Like any good girl I told him to fuck off that I wasn’t going to bark like any dog . He insisted and dragged me to the bed and said,” then I will make you.”

I quipped ,”no matter how many times you take the cane to me, or the flogger, or the paddle, you will not make me bark like a dog. It’s just not going to happen. You will not break me.”

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown and I knew it. But I was confident that I would be the victor. That he would tire before I.

He threw down lash after lash. Each time stopping long enough to pause and ask, “are you going to bark now?”

With each blow I tried to deal with the pain by biting into the comforter hard, as he bore down into my flesh. Now, some submissives are masochists but I am not. Some go to a dissociative place and leave their body, I did not. I just bit down and braced for it.

I was already bruised from his blows and felt it but didn’t want him to win. I hate losing. I despise weakness. At the next go round, I’d grown angry. I asked, “If our roles were reversed I wonder how many lashings you could take? Oh that’s right you would have pussied out by now.”

Then he hit me harder and atop of the bruises he had just inflicted. Dirty….dirty…. underhanded bastard I thought.

I knew in that moment he would win.

He leaned in and asked for the final time, “are you ready to bark yet?”

“Woof.” I said quietly.

He said, “say it louder.”

SMACK!!!!!

“WOOF!” I yelled.

“That’s my good girl, ” he replied.

Initially I wanted to be him that day, the one with all the power; the one wielding the implements. But then I realized that I had power of a different sort. That this sexual sadist craved me. I was his canvas and he needed to mainline me. By me pushing his buttons and challenging him, I created how this entire night went.